


Study Practice

by JET_Playin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Confident Harry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Pining, Quidditch, Studying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 01:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13260630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JET_Playin/pseuds/JET_Playin
Summary: Draco likes tostudywhile the Gryffindors have their Quidditch practice.





	Study Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi peoples! So, this was inspired by [this post](http://rosalyfart.tumblr.com/post/166524657245/draco-likes-to-study-while-the-gryffindors-have) from the brilliant [@rosalyfart](http://rosalyfart.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. I think it struck me a little differently than intended, but I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to my beta on this, [unadulteratedstorycollecter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector)! Thank you, sweetie!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these beautiful boys, I just like to play with them :)

Dawn broke peacefully over the grounds of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The cheerful sound of birdsong filled the air and the first, watery rays of the morning sun cut across the misty, Scottish highlands. Moving purposefully over the sprawling grounds, Draco Malfoy could be seen, wrapping his cloak tighter against the chill spring wind. When he reached the Quidditch pitch, he trudged silently up, into the stands.

He turned his head as he climbed, hitching the strap of his worn, leather satchel more securely over his shoulder, and squinted into the light of the rising sun. Within moments, it would clear the boxes, high above the pitch. High enough to illuminate his half of the wooden structure, so he wouldn't bother climbing too high.

By the middle of his eighth year, this had become Draco's morning routine; regardless of whether or not he managed to sleep the night before, he woke before the sun. That should have become difficult, he assumed, but it never did. Even when he was exhausted, he gathered whatever homework was due, and the required books, then made the hike to the Quidditch pitch. Where he sat, enjoying the quiet with his work, until the sun lit the grass of the pitch, below.

Inevitably, his focus was broken by the arrival of the practicing house teams. The boys and girls would come careening onto the pitch, shrieking with laughter and an excess of good-natured teasing. Intruding on his peaceful bubble. At first, they would freeze, momentarily, upon seeing him. Some would point and the rest would turn to stare. But, eventually, they began to ignore him, until Draco made his way back down the stairs and off of the pitch.

Well, most of the time.

Three days a week, he didn't leave. He didn't pack up his belongings. He didn’t walk down the stairs, or off the pitch. No, three days a week, he ignored the suspicious looks and rude gestures of the Gryffindor team. But, what else could he do? When Potter taunted him with cheeky grins and jaunty waves… There was no way he'd let the bloody Prat Who Lived drive him away.

It became clear, rather early on in his campaign to remain steadfast in the face of such derision, that he should have chosen retreat, instead. From the moment Potter walked onto the pitch and promptly removed his shirt leaving him standing in faded, black joggers that rode low, exposing prominent hip bones, Draco knew he was a fool.

It didn't matter, though, as Potter wasn't even the one to notice him, that first day. Draco had ample time to compose himself before Ginevra Weasley pointed in his direction, flapping her arms about like a mad harpy. Potter merely grinned, then shrugged and went about his business. His business being stretching for longer than was strictly necessary, twisting his upper body, his arms, his legs, to work out any kinks. When he finally retrieved his Firebolt — the same Firebolt he rode into the Fiendfyre, less than a year before — he turned to Draco, winked, and took off, into the air.

Potter wasn't on the team. Eighth years weren't permitted to play Quidditch but, because of new configuration of the student body, McGonagall allowed one eighth year from each house to coach their respective teams. Draco considered asking to do so, himself, but quickly decided against it; there was little point in remaining where one wasn't wanted… in most cases. So he left that honor to Theo. Draco was content to spend the year studying, anyway.

Of course, he thought now, as the Gryffindors took to the pitch, it wasn't exactly studying he did on these mornings.

Lifting his book higher, to mask the unfortunate flush rising on his cheekbones, Draco surveyed the arriving team. He only knew one team member, by name - though he rarely thought of her that way. The Weaslette, broom slung over her shoulder, was shoving playfully at another seventh year, her head thrown back in laughter. For the first time, Draco could see the action for what it was.

She was _flirting_ … and it wasn't with Potter.

He heard the rumors, of course, that the two decided to forego a relationship, but he didn't know if he should believe them. They were frequently seen together, after all, bent close and laughing. He was almost certain the rumors were wrong, as they so often were. Case and point: _he_ never had any kind of romantic relationship with Pansy. The rumor mill, once started, took on a mind of its own and Draco saw no reason this should be any exception. Well, not until last. Last night changed that misconception, among many others.

Draco scanned the group for the wild mass of black hair and that warm smile that was becoming all too familiar. As recently as a week ago, he would have argued that Potter’s behavior was designed for the sole purpose of unnerving him. His grins and waves and bloody _winks_ existed only to torment Draco, and they generally succeeded. He left the pitch on these days, after the team was finished, of course, feeling uncomfortably aware of his surroundings. Of his clothing, of the wind whipping through his hair or, more recently, the sun beating against his back.

Frankly, he could still argue that, but it did appear to be changing. He didn't only smile at Draco anymore, but spoke to him, studied with him. Draco couldn't seem to stop it. It was impossible to fend Potter off, when he sank his teeth in. Not unlike the ivy Draco's mother favoured, the man had a tenacious will and the means to insert himself where he wasn't wanted. He even volunteered to partner with Draco in their classes, in spite of adamant protests to the contrary.

Even Draco, himself, wasn't immune to his charms, given the optimal circumstances. When Potter approached him, last night, to invite him to a walk around the lake, Draco couldn't remember how to form the words to refuse. And he absolutely wanted to refuse. It was one thing to ogle the man's arse from afar, but quite another to walk beside him, talk to him.

Except, it really wasn't. Potter darted around, flitting from the bank of the Great Lake to the trees lining it, and back to Draco. He seemed nervous, outside of his typically boundless stores of energy, and Draco didn't know what to do but watch him. And listen, of course, as Potter prattled on about everything from upcoming assignments and how “bloody hard” they were likely to be, to the Quidditch match that morning and what skills his team had to hone before they faced Ravenclaw, next month.

“Draco!” Potter called, dragging Draco from the memories that followed their walk.

He was already shirtless, gripping his broom in one fist, the familiar position increasing the burn in Draco's cheeks, as well as the tightness of his trousers. Now that he knew, first hand, what that broom was feeling, he could do nothing to hold back the flow of sensation; the breathless sighs echoing around them, the heat of hands claiming him, marking him, the delicious burn of—

“Sorry I'm late,” Potter shouted to his team. “I slept in.”

“Had a late night, did you?” A sixth year smirked, leering at him.

“‘Course!” he replied with a rude gesture, and Draco cringed. The man had no shame, did he?

Not that he had anything to be ashamed of, exactly, but discretion wouldn't be remiss in this situation. Instead, he tilted his head back and shielded his eyes to peer up into the stands. Grinning like an idiot, and inspiring an answer smile behind the thick pages of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ , Potter waved before setting about his own morning routine.

The chill of the morning had already passed and, with nothing to dissuade them, beads of sweat slipped over broad shoulders and taught skin, drawing Draco's attention, in spite of himself. When Potter bent double to touch his toes, the worn fabric stretching tight over his arse, the breath caught in his chest and his heartbeat kicked into high speed. Draco watched, captivated, until Potter's eyes met his, around one muscled thigh. The smoldering depths of pure emerald sparked twin reactions, sending heat to Draco's loins and clamping a sweaty fist in his chest.

This was torture. He didn't know why he did it to himself, but the very thought of walking away from the sight before him was ludicrous. No one in their right mind would walk away from a half naked Harry Potter. Not on the Quidditch pitch, and not in the bedroom. And, contrary to popular belief, Draco did, indeed, have full command of his faculties. And, as such, did not walk away. When Potter — “ _goddamn it, Draco, call me Harry!_ ” — paused his meandering stride, towering mere inches over him, Draco didn't walk away. When those riveting eyes fell to his lips, heat flashing through them, Draco didn't step back but, rather, forward. He sank into strong arms, felt the cold press of metal and glass against his skin, and took what he could barely admit he wanted.

Below, a flash of movement drew Draco's attention back to the present just as Potter joined his team, in the air. He turned lazy circles, swooping low enough to graze his trainers along the grass, still wet with dew, before ascending again, and shooting ahead of his younger housemates. Streaking through the sky, he seemed oblivious to the wind whipping his hair into more of a tangled mess than usual. After longer than necessary, he pulled the broom up, coming to a stop where the team was tossing a quaffle to and fro. He hovered around them, shouting directions and corrections over the wind as they began to run their plays. When everyone was finally preoccupied with their individual goals, he turned and flew toward the stands.

Toward Draco.

Swallowing, Draco squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He hadn't spoken to Potter before he snuck out of bed, before dawn, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to the idea, now. He was sure he knew how that conversation would end. He was surprised that Potter stuck around, till morning, to have it. One way or another, it would seem, he still meant to have it. He leapt from the broom, before coming to a complete stop, to land neatly on the seat below Draco’s perch. He swung it behind his back and bowed low, in one seamless — if overly dramatic — gesture.

“Hi, gorgeous.” Straddling the bench beside Draco and setting his broom on the bench below them, Potter plucked the book from his fingers and leaned close. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Potter!” Draco hissed, scrambling to snatch the book back, simultaneously shifting his body away from the irresistible heat pouring from Potter. From the enticing scent of him. “What are you doing up here, someone will see—”

“Oh?” Potter smirked. “And what will they see?” Winking, he leaned close again, his free hand sliding over the small of Draco’s back.

The flush, ever-present on his cheeks from the moment Potter arrived on the pitch, flared with new life and Draco turned away “Potter, just—”

“It's ‘Harry,’ _Draco._ You didn’t wait for me, this morning,” he pouted. “I thought we could come down, together.”

Draco blinked, for a moment. That wasn't what he expected. None of this was.

“I had to shower,” he lied, smoothing his features into the blank mask he mastered during the war. “Besides, we couldn't have you seen around the school with a Death Eater, now could—”

“You aren't a Death Eater.” Potter’s face fell, and he dropped his arms to his sides, Draco's book still in one hand. “And we could have showered _together_ , you git.”

“That would defeat the purpose of showering, Potter.” Draco affected a disapproving frown, reaching for the book again, only to have it jerked out of reach. “Give me my book, you boor! I'm studying.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Potter chuckled, recovering from whatever had him gazing at Draco with such sadness. “I could feel your eyes through my joggers. So why don't you drop the pretense, for a moment, and—”

“And what, Potter? Kiss you?” he snarled, crossing his arms over his chest.

Potter frowned. “Yes.”

“In front of all these—”

“Yes.”

“No, Potter, that's mad! It'll be all over the bloody school!”

“So?”

“So? Potter, are you—”

“It's Harry, for fuck’s sake. And, who the hell cares if it's all over the school? I saved their hides; they can get over the fact that I'm gay.”

“Being gay and snogging the resident Death Eater are two very different things, _Potter_.” Draco glared, daring him to argue further.

The bright green irises darkened to a shade reminiscent of the Forbidden Forest at twilight, and Potter clenched his fists. But the explosion of denial Draco expected didn't come.

Carefully, with controlled movements, he laid both the book aside before his hands shot out, fisting in Draco's robes and jerking him forward. Danger glinted in his eyes, his muscles tensed. All Draco could do was stare, willing his pulse and his libido to relax. In the next moment, Potter growled, low in his throat, and Draco gave up the fight.

“You are not a Death Eater, Draco. And I'm not playing this game. If you want to fuck me, with your eyes or anything else, you don't do this. I won't do halfway and I will not hide you.”

“Harry—” Draco gasped, finally touching him — a hand on one sweaty shoulder, for balance.

“No,” he insisted. “If I believed, for a moment, that it was _your_ reputation you were afraid for, it would be fine. I won't force you to come out if you aren't ready. But all you've given me is that bullshit about who I'm seen with and who you are and _that_ is irrelevant.”

“We aren't even— it was one time, Harry, we're not—”

“And that's why you're out here ogling my arse, like you have done for months?”

“I'm _studying_ ,” Draco insisted, but it was half-hearted, at best.

“Yeah, we've covered that. ‘Studying,’ my arse.” The anger seemed to leave Harry, the glint in his eye becoming more mischievous than dangerous. “So, how about a hands-on lesson?”

The tenuous hold Draco maintained since he woke with Harry in his bed, that morning, snapped. Giving in to the current, he snaked his arm around the trim waist, sliding one hand over that arse as he lifted his lips to Harry's.

He tasted of coffee and bacon, smelled of grass and impending summer and man. Draco inhaled, bringing in the scent of him, even as he savoured the taste. Harry lifted his other hand to Draco's face, cupping his palm over his cheek, angled the kiss deeper. Clambering awkwardly, knocking the book to the ground, Harry crawled onto Draco's lap. He straddled his hips, squirming to find the right angle, and—

“Harry?” Ginevra called, blocking the sun as she flew toward the stands.

Harry groaned, dropping his head to Draco’s shoulder. “I need a minute, Gin?”

“You’ve had twenty. You know Jeremiah needs help pulling out of a dive, for the Wronski Feint. You can jump your boyfriend, later.”

Draco winced at the term, but Harry chuckled against his chest. Slipping his arms up to rest on Draco’s shoulders, he lifted his head and planted a chaste kiss on one red cheek.

“I’m sorry, gorgeous, but you heard her. I’ve got work to do,” Harry grinned.

“Of course, you have.” Draco sneered, squeezing his handful of Potter’s arse and thrilling a the groan that fell from his lips. “Now, kindly get the fuck off me.”

Ginevra rolled her eyes, but nodded when Harry unfolded his legs and stepped back to retrieve his broom. He also lifted Draco’s book, handing it back to him.

“What do you say we get together later?”

Draco’s gaze shot back to Ginevra, anticipating disapproval. She seemed disinterested, though, watching her teammates with rapt attention. Still, Harry really should be more discrete.

“I can’t,” Draco sniffed. “I’m—”

“Studying,” Harry said, with a wink. “I know. See you after practice.”

Turning, he mounted his broom and kicked off, leaving him to study, in peace. Snorting, Draco gathered his belongings into his satchel and settled in to watch the team practice. As if he'd be studying anything but Harry Potter for the rest of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos are love and comments validate my existence! ❤️❤️❤️


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